


Some Kind of Trouble

by everybreatheverymove



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Cunnilingus, Dark, F/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Spanking, Well... in the 2nd chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: Since her parents' death nine years earlier, Sansa's only cure for her loneliness has been the infrequent visits from the illusive yet charming Jon, who stops by once a year to check up on her. But is no longer a child of ten, and instead a woman grown who finds herself unable to refuse his harmless stay or deny her own dangerous urges, to devastatingly delicious consequences.Two-parter, because I'm not writing the full story I had planned, and instead I'm giving you a short smutfest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on but not following an AU idea I'd posted on Tumblr. I may one day write an additonal story to this, following the same core plot, but it would be much different and multichapter post instead of this shorter, purely smutty one. Sex will come soon, fret not. I'm only writing two chapters for a little bit of fun. I doubt the language and everything is accurate for the setting, but like... who cares when I'm gonna make 'em bang in the second part? Y'all want smut, and you'll get it. So, enjoy.

With a hand clutching at the top of her worn corset, Sansa sighs deeply.

It's an old garment, one she'd found safely hidden inside the case her mother had left tucked beneath the matrimonial bed.

The box was dusty and the lock stiff, but she'd washed over the surface with a dry cloth and hammered away at the valise's clasp with an old brick until it had given in.

The nice clothes she'd worn as a little miss wouldn't fit her anymore; the skirts too short, showing off her ankles and the bottom of her calfs, reminding Sansa of something those promiscuous women in town wore, and the sleeves of her dresses too tight, seams straining for freedom when she'd slipped an arm though.

She was grown now, all bruised long legs and scratched long arms with an elegant long neck topping her shoulders.

Her bony knees are black and blue, battered from kneeling in the farm's muddy dirt all day. The mud covers old tree roots that'll never grow again, and she'd landed face first in the muck on more than one occasion.

It hurt, having to riffle through pig shit and dirtied wet soil and pretend her limbs weren't aching.

But she needed to make ends meet, for her sake and her sake alone.

She was her own sole provider, not reliant on anybody. She couldn't wait for some man to come and lend her a hand; not that one ever would.

Nobody knows of her whereabouts, she is sure of it.

For surely if they did, if they knew she sometimes went without a single drop of water and sometimes starved herself until exhaustion overtook her, they would have made themselves known by now.

She has one acquaintance, and he is so strangely illusive that she sometimes thinks him to be false, a conjuring of sorts, a gift from her imagination to cure her loneliness.

She has one acquaintance, and he is so terribly strange and so illusively charming that she finds herself having to pray for his return, for his presence.

They're comforting to her; those infrequent days when he appears across the way and rides over to her. He dashes, and he's dashing, and she is half-tempted to beg him to whisk her away.

But she never does.

She never asks for help, but he is just kind enough to take over work on the farm for the day so she can rest.

She never asks him to stay, but he lingers around all day until they've eaten their supper and she has drifted off to sleep.

She never wonders where he has been when he is by her side, only wonders where he is when he isn't beside her.

She never thinks to question him, or his attentions. She never has.

He visits her once a year, plucks the vegetables she is growing from the dirty grass, handles the cattle and makes sure everything is in order before take off again.

It hurts her, when she wakes and he is gone.

It isn't that she misses him, though. How could she? Missing him would suggest that she has some knowledge into who he is, or what he does, that she has some reason to be attached to him. She has none.

He is little more than a man who has visited her nine times over nine years and left her wondering.

She has one acquaintance, and his whereabouts escape her completely.

She is due a visit, she knows. The sun is setting, dimming behind green mountain tops, and there's a chill to the air she recognises immediately.

It sends shivers up her arms, and she smoothes her hands up and down her forearms to shelter herself from the breeze. It's a fine gust of wind, one she knows to be a sign of the upcoming winter.

Copper hair flowing in the wind, Sansa grinds her teeth in regret at having left it down. It will knot, and it will take her a great deal of time to untangle.

She has mastered the art of it over the years, though. Twist the brush and tug at the ends. Mother always did it for her, but she has had to take over most of her mother's tasks. There is no one else to do it for her, so she must wash and dress and brush herself.

She wears her mother's clothes as they are the only ones to fit, and she makes newer dresses from old curtains and sheets of cloth she finds stored away in cupboards where the doors hang loose.

Her favourite is perhaps a green dress she had sewn herself with a used bed sheet she washed twice over and stained for good measure.

It appears new and, as she grasps the material of her skirt, she finds it softer than it once had been. It's miraculous, really; how she can find and make things of beauty despite a lifetime of solitude.

The early winter air makes the edges of her skirts dance along the tops of her laced boots in the dirt, and Sansa swallows a breath in exasperation.

She is due a visit, and the sun is setting.

Perhaps something has happened and her one lone acquaintance can no longer reach her. Perhaps he has died. Or rather, he was never alive to die in the first place.

He would have been here by morning, surely, Sansa gathers.

He comes in the morning, indeed, when the light is rising and she is stood on her crumbling porch with a hand sheltering her eyes from the blistering sun.

He arrives in the morning, when the sun has risen and she is left awestruck on her crumbling porch at his appearance.

His hair is curlier than the year before, and his beard longer. He is older than her, this she knows; but by how much escapes her completely. A couple of years, maybe several, a handful.

He is worn-down and somber, always darker than the year before, and she is yet to see a true smile grace his face.

"You've visited me every year since I was ten." She remembers telling him this when she was but fourteen, all growing pains and curling hairs.

She says it again now, only this time she is much less of a curious girl with an adolescent infatuation, and much more of a woman who has been left alone far too long.

"So I have."

He nods, and he is gruff, and she wants nothing more than to slap him. And so she does, with her palm again his face and her fingertips scraping along his scruffy mess of a beard.

"You're late." By a day, she wants to add for good measure.

"I was held up."

He tells her earnestly, and then holds his hands for good measure. Thick slices of rope wrapped around his wrists. The skin of his bones rubbed raw where he has tugged and yanked at the restraints.

"Tied up, rather."

"Was it a whore?"

It isn't any of her business, she knows. What he does, who he lies with. She sees him once a year, and that is all she allowed to have of him. Perhaps the whores are treated to more time, granted some extra days with this man she calls her saviour.

He isn't a true saviour, though, not really. If he were, she would not still be stuck in this pit of despair, tending to crops and animals she never desired to care for.

"Would it matter if it was?"

"Yes." It doesn't. She knows it doesn't. He isn't hers, and he can whore around if he so desires.

"Why would it matter?" He blinks, and she can tell his eyes are darker than their usual brown; they're almost puce, almost dangerous.

With a lick of her lips, Sansa simply offers a shrug. She folds her chilled arms over her chest, spins on her heel until she is walking back inside her farmhouse.

He follows her, and she lets him. He settles his things down by the doorway, at the bottom of the small stairwell, but as he always does.

Always. That's a funny word. She only sees him once a year.

He has watched her grow, admired the way she has changed over the years.

He unpacks his gun from its holster, sliding it from his belt, and he pulls on the scarf around his neck. The wild red rag loosens easily, and he tosses it down on top of his pistol carelessly.

He taught her how to shoot two years ago, she muses, staring down at the abandoned weapon. She may have to use it on him if he crosses her again.

"It wasn't."

"Wasn't a whore?" She perks an eyebrow, thinly fakes a smile. It's veiled and he knows it. "That ain't any of my business."

"You pretend it is."

She spins at that, ignoring his suggested pretence. "It isn't my concern who you fuck."

"Little ladies shouldn't say such things."

"This lady ain't little no more, Jon. Didn't you notice?" She knows his name, and that is all.

He follows after her again, letting her lead the way into the room she calls the dining area, watching as she presses both palms against the table's creaking wooden surface, "I like to pretend I ain't."

"Does that make it easier for you?" She begin, dares with the sharpest of glares, "To pretend I'm still a lil' missy? Did ya not picture me when you fucked the whore who tied you up, or down?"

"I didn't fuck no whore, so no."

"How come you were all roped up then?"

"Bandits."

"Here I was thinking you were one yourself." She admits, slides one hand along the table as she straightens out her skirt with her free hand. It's warmer inside; the dusting cool air at bay.

"And just why would ya think that?" He makes a move to step closer, but she doesn't flinch.

He has known her since she was ten years old. He is harmless to her. "Because you're all rough an' strong an' you only ever come 'round once a year. Sounds mighty strange to me."

"I'm no outlaw, Sansa." He rarely speaks her name in true, and when he does, she almost caves.

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who's been watchin' over you for years."

"I'm gon' pretend you didn't just say that."

"You find me strange then, huh? Perverse?"

"I don't find you perverse. If I did, I'd have picked up ya' pistol and shot you already."

She curves the table, steps into his space without a sound. It's peaceful there, with his warm breath sheltering her from the breeze seeping in through the cracked shutters.

"What'd you do if I told you a man was here? With me?"

"With you in what way?"

She bats her lashes, purses her lips with a slight smirk. "The way you want to be." She nods, taps one finger against his shirted chest. He's bare between the ripped sides of his shirt and she holds her breath when his fist curls around her gentle hand.

"And which way is that?"

"As a man has a woman."

"Seems to me I could'a had you any number of times. Seen as I'm the only one who knows you're here an' all."

"Nah." She grinds her teeth, feels her jaw ache at the friction as she pries her wrist from his grasp. "You want me willing. Hell, that's probably why you keep comin' back. Waiting for the day I decide to spread my legs."

"If that's the case, then spread your legs."

"You shouldn't say such things to lil' ladies."

"Thought you were no lil' lady anymore." He reasons, lowers himself until one hand is grasping her thigh and she is flush against him. "If I came here for your cunt, then you wouldn't be arguing with me."

"Because ya'd be perverse about it?"

"No." He shakes his head, the mop of dark brown hair sweeping across his forehead. He's sweaty and his knuckles are raw, watching them curl as his fingers dance along toward the inside of her thigh. "You'd be taking that awful thing off without me even mentioning it."

Jon swipes a finger from his free hand at her chest, tugs at the front of her corset. The dried blood on his hand smudges against the fabric and Sansa holds her breath, watching the loose rope around his wrist roll downward as he lowers his touch to her waist.

"Little ladies don't undress in front of strange men."

"But women do."

"Is that what ya'd like? For me to be a woman, and you to be the man who has me?"

"Wouldn't ya rather be the woman who has the man? Or would you prefer to be treated like a whore down in town instead? I heard they have an opening."

"That depends on the man treating me as such."

She doesn't visit the town very often, only when certain items are needed and unattainable elsewhere. There aren't many folk left there, though, only the sheriff and some of his men, some elderly residents, and the brothel's wailing women.

She has heard them in the past, either moaning in what Sansa can only gather is pleasure or screaming in what she assumes in absolute terror.

"You don't wanna know what that darn brothel does to people, Sansa. No matter if the man is whipping you for pain or play."

"Whipping?" She almost gasps, almost shrieks. "Sounds rather brutal for a whorehouse."

"Ain't nothing for a whorehouse, a lil' whipping."

"With belts?"

He has let go of her entirely, has removed all touch from her body. Her leg is dropped, his hand in his back pocket.

"Hmm, if he's decent."

"If a belt is decent, what could be worse?"

"There are levels, dear Sansa." He pats her head once, twice, much like he once did when she was twelve and successfully milked a cow after copying him. "Hands, belts, heavy sticks of splintered wood, or so I've heard at least."

"I can't imagine anyone enjoying such a thing."

It's her turn to follow him now, when he stalks into her kitchen and picks up a half empty bottle of milk from the counter. The cap is off and he drinks it down in only a couple of gulps.

"That's because you never tried."

"I thought ya weren't perverse."

"I wasn't offering."

"Oh." Sansa ducks her head, realises their short-lived charade has reached an end. "Have you used... your hands, before?"

"Matter of fact, I have. Belts, too. Used those on outlaws though." He tells her pointedly, bringing them back to their earlier conversation. He lifts up a wrist and shakes his fist, "He didn't last long."

Admitting he killed a man should've been a bigger deal, Sansa notes. But it wasn't, and she doesn't even bat an eye at the mention. Times are hard, times are rough.

"Would you use your hands on me?"

"Would I spank ya, you mean?" He sounds surprised, as though he didn't see that question coming despite their suggestive words. "If you deserved it."

"How would I deserve it?"

"I don't know, Sansa. You'd have to commit a crime." He doesn't want to hurt her, punish her.

He has been charged with her protection, much to his dismay. How can he watch her from afar and visit her so little when she is his purpose?

"Shoot someone?"

Jon only nods, "Depends what ya think deserves corporal punishment. I won't sentence ya to anything."

"Have I grown a lot, Jon? Am I a woman now?"

It's off-subject and he is thrown.

He will know, she reasons; whether she is truly a woman or nothing but a girl still learning.

"You're a woman. Much to my displeasure."

It was easier to protect her when she was a child and he an adolescent. It was easier to ignore her changing body when she was still an adolescent and he a man on the precipice of adulthood. It was easier when he didn't notice the swell of her breasts or her long legs she hid beneath her skirts. It was easier when she wasn't determined to destroy him and his promise alike.

"To your displeasure? Am I not pleasurable to look at?"

Her hands smooth down her side, fingertips dancing along the bottom of her corseted chest. Heaven help him.

"You are, Sansa." The empty milk bottle is placed in the rusty sink and he makes a note to himself to clean it later. "You are pleasurable to look at."

"Then why are ya avoiding looking at me?"

She has caught him out, and Jon shifts his gaze from her dress to her face. She is flushed, lightly, and her ivory cheeks are rosy from the broken wind outside.

"Because I'm a man and you're a woman now, and this is harder than I thought it'd be."

"Looking at me? Or pretending I'm still a little lady?"

"Pretending I don't see the changes in you. It's wrong, wrong of me to look at you this way."

"It's only wrong if I'm a child still and I ain't no more."

She nears him, grabs his hand and places it on her hip.

Just as before, just as she has wanted since he arrived on her porch. "It's only wrong if I ain't asking you to do it."

"Are ya asking me to do it?"

"I've been silently pleadin' with you since ya got here."

"But you haven't asked."

"No, I ain't. I guess that was shameful of me."

Her blue eyes shine grey, and she licks her lips in anticipation of something she does not recognise. There is warmth between her legs and the fire spreads as she closes in on him, chest pressed against his, fingers curling around his half-bound wrist.

Sansa tugs on the rope, silently praying for him to stay past the night that has yet to arrive.

"Such a shame you could almost deem it criminal."

"It wasn't a crime, Sansa."

"I deeply regret my mistake and would like to suffer the consequences of my actions." She ignores his remark, soldiers on with squared shoulders and her gaze set on his lips. "Would you, honourable citizen, be willing to carry out the punishment for such a crime?"

"Sansa."

It was easier when she was a child, ignorant to the world around her and the past times of adults. It was easier only moments ago when she had yet to encourage him to break his resolve.

"I find corporal punishment to be the only suitable option here. I shall learn from my errors." She swallows, and he watches the swell in her throat. "Will you take me standing or over your knee, good sir?"

He pulls at the waist of her skirt before she can tempt him any further, and gently lowers her down with a hand at the base of her spine.

Her ribs bruise against the hardness of his kneecaps when he drags out a chair and sits himself down on it. She is bent over his lap, willing yet innocently foolish.

"Comfortable?"

Sansa nods, but it proves futile because he's already pulling up her skirts to her waist and bunching up the material in his free hand. It pools around her stomach, scrunched between the both of them, and his free hand settles itself on her backside.

His palm taps but once over the muscle of her bottom before he stops, pouts lips she is still desperate to touch, "This won't do." He pulls on the band of her bloomers then, tugging the unmentionables down to the backs of her knees.

The white cloth is soft around her legs and Sansa has half a mind to stop him for moment so she can undo her boots. The toes dance along the creaky floorboards as the chair shifts, and his hand finds her ass again. He traces her skin, moves roughly calloused fingers along her flesh so smoothly she almost forgets this is a form of punishment. It's supposed to be, at least.

He isn't punishing her, though, and she knows this; it was her plea, after all.

"Again?"

"Yes, sir." She hides a grin behind her hands, running them up his thighs until she covers her face, ducks her head low to hang against him. The second blows smacks, whips against her skin like a harsh winter wind in the nightime. Admitedly, she quite likes it, and she soon finds herself wiggling her backside to spur him on when the third smack fails to charter any true reaction.

The fourth hits, and she gasps, teeth digging into the ball of her tight fist beside his thigh. She wants to claw at him, to mark him as he is marking her. Instead, she chooses to moan in encouragement when his hand strokes her bottom instead of spanking it.

There is a heat pooling between her legs, she can feel it, and the sensation is quasi foreign to her. Yes, she has had it happen in the past. When she has felt truly alone and found herself thinking of his face while bathing. When she has let her hand slip just a little too far up her shift in the middle of a restless night.

"Again."


End file.
